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Best Poems Written by Bryan Griffin

Below are the all-time best Bryan Griffin poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Cosmic Ride

Tomorrow I’ll fall into the sky
and take the stars for a ride.
Paint myself a psychedelic ship
and head out on a cosmic trip.

Past the moon and into the sun
back out again and just keep on.
The universe will be all mine.
I’ll have myself a very cool time.

How can this groovy trip be?
Mushrooms or LSD?
No. Nothing drastic as all that.
I’ll just hitch a ride
with my vampire bride.

She’s something else, that girl, you know.
She goes wherever she wants to go.
She don’t need no bus or train
She don’t need no airplane

On a ride from planet earth
to the planet of her birth.
Just beyond our galaxy
to a place called Planet 3.

There are many of her kind
in this hip chick colony.
They play Zappa all day long,
singing each and every song.

How I met her is quite a tale,
this immortal girl I call Love.
I was strolling one night to the beat
of some cool cats that were really sweet.
Just as I was in my groove
She appeared. 
All in tune.

I didn’t care that she was pasty white
and that she only came out at night.
I just knew that she was cool.
I mean literally cool.
She stared at me with ancient eyes
and then I had to say my goodbyes.

She kissed my neck and I forgot
that I had somewhere I should be.
Now together we ride she and I
to hip places throughout the sky.
We travel only at night
digging life without sunlight.

I ain’t no vampire, at least not yet.
I would know if it were so.
It’s funny how we never fight.
We just live on a vampire bites.
We travel from one world to the next,
searching for a taste
of something cold,
blood soup and black eyed peas.

I’m very happy don’t you know
My heart these days is always aglow.
Me and my vampire girl
we'll live throughout eternity,
digging tunes and watching toons,
we’re going to be all sanctified.
So if you can’t find me one of these nights
look up in the sky beyond the haze.
I’ll be up high digging the scene
with my vampire girl from Planet 3.

Details | Bryan Griffin Poem

A Quiet Walk

A quiet walk among the trees,
summer scents on the evening breeze,
a night time world alive with nature’s song.

Far above the peaceful scene 
the moon makes its nightly rounds
strolling closer to the sun.
Inching up and inching down.
Earthly eyes behold 
the spinning orb in an orbit all her own.

I know what I see.
An icy world of tranquility.
Battered ground where light abounds.
Another world lifeless and still.
From the beginning 
an ever changing face yet still the same.
The human race has felt its draw
and rushed to obey its subtle call.
Our light.
Our security.

She remains the queen of the night
sometimes dark and sometimes light.
She rules the tides and shakes the earth
driving us mad with her powerful stare.
She is a law unto herself
yet still ruled by earth’s allure.

She is the source of lover’s poems and lover’s songs,
lover’s hope and lover’s charm.
Ever adorned in cosmic rays
she is
Winter’s fire and 
Spring’s grace.
Summer’s swoon and 
Autumn’s lace.

Into space I go each night
to bask in the moon’s lunar delights.
A quiet walk among the trees.
Summer scents on the evening breeze.

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The Beginning of My End

THE BEGINNING OF MY END

On this cold morning as the wind 
blows through the trees,
young buds shiver in the rain,
and the time has come for me.

Another time of waiting
 among dim lights and subtle hues.
Photographs on the walls 
of churches, lakes, and barns.

Early morning prayers are offered
while business is being done.
The business of life and death.
The business of darkness and sun.

The receptionist, trapped in a troubled world,
wades through the reams.
All the while quietly 
coming apart at the seams.

Do I need a wheel chair?
Have I had any falls?
Blood work and x-rays.
When will this all be done?

Closer I am moving through
the barren halls
where smiling faces on the walls
point out the way.

Finally I am ready.
Ready for the rays.
Rays that will tell me 
if I have another day.

Radiation in my veins.
Waiting without pain.
Soon the story will be told
of a little lump that has grown.

This little lump with a life all it's own
 will soon have it's way,
and bring  me ever so slowly
to my end of days.

Soon the image is made
and the story is told.
This is my beginning.
the beginning of my end.

Details | Bryan Griffin Poem

Another Titanic

ANOTHER TITANIC

A wounded ship.
A worried crew.
Frightened  passengers.
No way out.

A frightened herd
stumbling about,
panic in their eyes,
panic in their hearts.

Four musicians stand alone.
watching as the disaster rolls.
“Play something lively.” the leader calls,
“A tune we played before the berg.”

In perfect harmony they play on.
A lively waltz.
A perfect score.
A tune befitting this tragic storm.

From the mist of peril and doom
appear new faces pale and blue.
Fierce eyes set in white 
sharp teeth ready to bite.

Ageless ones without a soul,
beautiful creatures who never grown old.
Lost souls who never sleep
wait as frightened sheep bleat.

In living death they are strong,
captured forever in death’s song.
Little ones, innocence lost, 
crave the taste of a new host.

Grown men trapped in immortal clothes
rush to feed in rapturous throes,
while smiling maidens faces alight 
seduce the living into eternal night.

And the waltz plays on and on.
A song of delight for those of the night,
for those who have forsaken all,
to live on the creatures of the dawn.

Frightened cattle flee the depths
unaware of this new death.
Still the waltz plays on
a background for the murderous song.

A dying ship with a dying crew
Dying passengers and survivors few.
Still the waltz plays on and on
until the end has come.

Silence comes as a
deafening roar.
A thousand lost angels.
A hellish choir.

With none left to tell the terrible tale
the beasts turn on the musicians four,
to close in for 
the final ‘Good Night’.

In the saddest voice that ever was heard
their leader cries in solemn tones.
“Gentlemen the pleasure has been all mine.
Nearer My God to Thee.”

Details | Bryan Griffin Poem

Shaving In the Dark

Shaving In The Dark

Blood on my face.
A wound from shaving in the dark.
A scar from an angry battle with my soul.
This is how the story goes.
A simple question from my little girl.
A question of the things of life.
A chance for hope.
A chance to share
some wisdom to help her cope.
I chose to set things right,
to fill the air with words of strife.
How some people aren't very nice
all the while hiding my own vice.
I spoke of evils, but not my own.
I chose to let her walk alone.
Plunging  into the darkest cold
I left her in the wilderness to roam.
In my pride I ranted on
until finally I was done.
Feeling smug with my vain words
as the world struggled on.
Killing and hatred was the score
of my miserable symphony.
All hope was lost as the war continued on
in the shallow pursuit of my own gain.
I had given sorrow the upper hand
instead of words she could understand.
But my daughter set me straight
with words of a simple faith.
With a song in a voice so sweet
she set the world back on its feet. 
"Jesus loves the little children.
All the children of the world.
Red, yellow, black, and white
they are precious in his sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world."
With her faith she set me right
and showed me just where I stood.
A man with blood on his face
from shaving in the dark.

"Jesus Loves The Little Children" C. Herbert Woolston, George F. Root.

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Monday

I woke up this morning feeling great.
A new day.
I could hardly wait.
I sang its praise and did celebrate.
Yes, I sang with great delight,
"What a day this beautiful day.
I am filled with happiness I have to say."
While I rejoiced a voice came to me
to share a little disharmony.
"Good for you O cheerful one,
It is Monday and the day has just begun.
This is the day when everything goes wrong.
Kitchen sinks and telephones,
flat tires and little falls,
lost reports and holes in the wall,
program glitches and lost emails.
So don't get so cheerful with me.
Today is Monday.
You wait and see."
I put it off as a passing thought,
turned on the light and the power was off.
I opened the faucet but nothing came out
and that is when I began to doubt.
Unwashed and smelling I made it to work.
and from my boss came these Monday words,
"Where have you been?  Its ten o'clock."
The day went on, a disaster unfolding.
A horrible mess. 
A perfect storm.
Finally, bedtime arrived,
 my perfect chance to go and hide.
I slipped off my socks and jumped in the sack
and through the floor went the bed.
So tonight I sleep on the basement floor
Monday has passed and I am happy all the more.

Details | Bryan Griffin Poem

The Sun

THE SUN

Today the world is sorrow and pain
dark clouds and falling rain.
All the silver linings have vanished into ash
and all the good days have long since passed.
What can be done to bring back the sun
to feel its warmth renew my soul,
to feel the rose against my face,
and smell its odor sweet?
How can I touch the rose
without touching the thorn?
How can I love 
without feeling pain?

I’ll remember that life is good
savored with the bitter herb.
I’ll remember that today is a gift
to be cherished and shared.
My lady and I we’ll share the sun
walking in the rain.
We’ll forget the pain and carry on
In the beauty I call love,
remembering that life is best when it is 
shaken not stirred.

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The Chuch of Sight and Sound

We can’t stop what we’ve begun.
We’ve created a world that can’t be undone.
The beauty is ours for all to see.
As selfish as it may seem
It is all about the artists
you and I.
The bond that we share,
the works we prepare.
You and I 
joined at the hip,
two artists bound by the brush.
We worship together you and I,
in the temple of beauty ,
in the church of sight and sound.

Details | Bryan Griffin Poem

My Troubles

MY TROUBLES

My troubles followed me home today 
as they did not want to be alone.
“Wait for us!” they cried and came in
before I could close the door.

As my troubles sat with me
in my favorite chair
they began to tell me
of their worries and their cares.

“You could have done better,” 
was their solemn advice.
“You could have tried harder
to be nice.”

Their words were not welcomed
no comfort did they bring.
Still my troubles kept on
with their sad refrain.

“Are you listening?” screamed my troubles
drowning out my favorite show
as they would not be hindered
in their mission to haunt me.

My troubles pressed on with vigor.
An unpaid bill.
A little white lie.
An unfinished repair.

“Look at you.  Is this all you can do?”
I wanted to rest but they said no.
For a moment I almost forgot  
that they were there.

Waiting for a commercial
my troubles returned in force
to remind me
of the thing left undone.

These evil warriors battled on 
with curses and pathetic tales 
of lost opportunities
 gone forever because of my lack of care.

As bedtime ended the day long battle 
my troubles groaned and shrieked,
 “Wait don’t leave us!”  
“Oh, you are so weak.”

They were silent until I closed my eyes
then they were quick to say 
“Good night, sweet prince.  Sleep tight.”
“We’ll be waiting.”

In the peace that passes understanding
I slumbered well past dawn 
when my troubles woke me to tell me
that it was nearly noon.

The battle of the mind renewed again 
with fierce intensity
growing to a deafening roar
in every corner of my head.

What am I to do.
with these my awful friends?
To their hate and spite
give in?

No! 
I’ll do something better.
I’ll rise up and  
start my life renewed.
To fight with all my might 
until a victory over my troubles I win.

I’ll read a book.
I’ll write a poem.
I’ll help someone 
feel better again.

I will live each second 
with joy and with praise
so that tonight 
when I go to bed I can say.

“Good Night. My troubles. "
"Good Night.”
 “Forever.“

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Old Man

Hey old man !
What are you doing trying to be cool,
writing poems and acting like a fool?
Your time has come and is gone,
your days have vanished with your songs.
So don’t go trying to lay it down.
You can’t be serious with all those rhymes.
It takes a whole lot of man to be straight,
to be a poet so-called.
If your dream is to be righteously hip 
you better get on the righteous trip.
Ride cool in the stormy weather.
Take off and fly.
A pen is all you need to keep your rap,
to lay down your dream with a mighty blast.
But you can’t cop the dream sitting on a bench
scribbling out words by the inch.
To be cool it takes all that you’ve got,
to throw out your sound in movement and thought.
To be lean is so obscene
A life for old men who sit and scheme.
To get down you got to be strong
Give it all your body and soul.
Being hip is a full time job,
not for old men or little boys.